


To sea

by fox_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Baz pov, Boxing Day, Christmas, Fluff, Let It Snow zine, M/M, Nipples, One-Shot, rich people just have cottages lying around specifically for christmas, sea swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29152668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fox_pitch/pseuds/fox_pitch
Summary: It was actually my father’s idea for us to use the cottage. It’s been in the family forever; a little whitewashed eighteenth-century farmhouse with a bright yellow door and a view of the sea.I know my father has considered selling the house on more than one occasion, but I’m glad he hasn’t. A weight lifted from Simon’s shoulders when I told him we didn’t have to do Christmas at the Manor. He finds Christmas Day particularly difficult.We all do.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Let It Snow Zine





	To sea

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the Let It Snow zine! Companion art by Jeska. 
> 
> _“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.” - Herman Melville, Moby Dick_

There’s a spider’s web stretching across one of the porthole-shaped windows in this cottage that Simon is somewhat ... _overly_ invested in. 

I don’t think the cleaners missed it—when we arrived, it looked like the spider was in the process of rebuilding from scratch, rather than adding an extension—and when I went to sweep it away Simon put a hand on my wrist to stop me.

I sighed. “Take it outside, Snow, if you’re that concerned for its wellbeing.” 

“Nah. It’ll freeze outside,” Simon said, as the spider seemed to peer warily at us from the corner of the sill. “Anyway, you can’t kick it out on Christmas.” I rolled my eyes. This, from a man who has historically killed indiscriminately and without hesitation. 

“Someone read _Charlotte’s Web_ a few too many times as a child,” I said, and Simon looked genuinely baffled.

“What’s _Charlotte’s Web_?” 

Right. Of course. Simon didn’t do anythingtoo much as a child, except compound traumas. 

We actually had a copy of the book in the bedroom that used to be mine, so I dug it out for him and he lay happily on the sofa under the window reading it all Christmas Eve. He read his favourite parts aloud to the spider. Bunce and Omaha made hot, whiskey-spiked cider on the aga, and Wellbelove sat in the chair by the fire reading me my horoscope from an app, rolling her eyes when she realised I was watching Simon like the lovesick idiot I am instead of listening to her telling me to“ _avoid pickles and scented sticker_ s” _._

It was actually my father’s idea for us to use the cottage. It’s been in the family forever; a little whitewashed eighteenth-century farmhouse with a bright yellow door and a view of the sea. We always used to spend that odd no man’s land between Christmas and New Year here when my mother was alive. Since then it’s been co-opted for a few summer holidays, but it’s far too small for the entire Grimm-Pitch contingent now. We’ve only managed to cram the five of us in for the week because Bunce and Wellbelove are in bunk beds (mine—apparently I harboured fantasies of siblings when I was little, to which I can only say, be extremely careful and numerically specific about what you wish for), and Shepard is sleeping on the sofa. 

I know my father has considered selling the house on more than one occasion, but I’m glad he hasn’t. There’s a lot of my mother here. Her books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves either side of the fireplace; a bottle of her perfume, long dried out, still sitting on the windowsill in the master bedroom. 

Besides, a weight lifted from Simon’s shoulders when I told him we didn’t have to do Christmas at the Manor. He finds Christmas Day particularly difficult. 

We all do. 

This year has been different. This year Bunce and I fretted for weeks planning the roast, drawing diagrams and writing to-do lists and bickering over how to dress the turkey, but when it actually came down to it we woke up late and drank Buck’s Fizz in our pyjamas and ordered a cheerful Shepard around the kitchen. When Wellbelove suggested we eat on the living room floor because she was far too lazy to set the table—her one and _only_ job—we just shrugged, perhaps a little _too_ Bucks-Fizzed, and agreed. 

It was already dark by the time everything was ready. I insisted that we change into our dinner clothes—I picked out a suit especially, tuxedo cut in dark mauve, and I wasn’t going to let it go to waste—and we’ve been stuffing ourselves and lounging around on the rug in our finery for hours, Bunce spelling the dishes hot again every time someone expresses a desire for more food. Ella & Louis are softly serenading us over the speakers, and Simon has insisted on building the fire manually for some reason (I thought Bunce’s head was going to fall off when he kept refusing her magic). 

When I come back from the kitchen with two glasses of sherry for Wellbelove and I, Simon is kneeling on the sofa, trying to feed a little scrap of turkey to the spider. 

“Alright, Charlotte,” he croons, waving it in front of the web like he’s expecting her to sit up and beg for it like a dog. “You want some? It’s not a _fly_ , but it’s a—well, it’s sort of like a big meaty fly. Like a dinosaur, with feathers—”

“If the spider doesn’t know what a turkey is,” I say, “how would it know about dinosaurs?” 

“Intuition,” Simon says mysteriously. He leaves the turkey on the windowsill, and the spider studiously ignores it. “She keeps all her wisdom in her legs.” 

“Just like Basil,” Bunce says tipsily from the floor. 

I don’t even have it in me to say something cutting back; I just reach for Simon, who’s undone the top buttons of his shirt and is looking flushed and happy in the firelight, and kiss him on the cheek. He turns his face into mine, nuzzling at me gently, and then suddenly _licks_ my chin like some sort of debauched puppy. 

“Disgusting,” I say, reaching for a napkin, and he just grins. 

“ _Disgusting_ ,” Wellbelove agrees from behind her sherry. She’s wearing a dark green velvet dress, with winterberries in her hair. She looks lovely, if a little tired of our company. 

“What’s the plan tomorrow?” Shepard says, picking up an After Eight and studying it for a moment before sliding it out of its little papery jacket and eating it. 

“Up at seven,” Bunce says. “Ready to go by quarter to eight.” I never should have told Bunce about the Boxing Day swim. It’s an annual tradition here; locals flock to the beach to rush into the freezing surf together to shake off the post-Christmas torpor, some of them sporting questionable costumes. She’s a fiend for a good ritual, even if it’s decidedly Normal. 

The thought of waking up in less than eight hours motivates us to get up and start clearing away the dishes—Simon’s contribution is to start rapidly consuming anything edible left, which I suppose is one way of helping—and then Bunce helps make up the sofa bed while Simon and I head upstairs.

The bathroom is tiny, and I sigh loudly when Simon shoulders in as I’m washing my face and tries to brush his teeth at the same time. He’s all wings, and it’s even more pronounced in close quarters; he has a tendency to flop one over my shoulder unconsciously as if he’s putting an arm around me, and I have to shrug him off so I can get to my washbag. 

I’m brushing my own teeth when I see him reflected in the mirror behind me, unbuckling his jeans.

“ _Excuse_ me,” I say pointedly, and Simon turns around with toothpaste all over his upper lip.

“It’s just a piss!” he says defensively. “Nothing wrong with a piss, between friends.” “We’re not friends,” I say, and he waggles his eyebrows at me in a way that makes him look rather unhinged.

“I’ve pissed in front of you loads of times.” 

“Not in a bathroom the size of a hardback book,” I say, my lip curling. 

He just shrugs, and does it anyway. I wish it were more horrifying to me, but Simon and I have become almost unbearably familiar of late; I actually use my good flannel to wipe the toothpaste off his face when he leans over me to wash his hands, and he gives me a sloppy, minty kiss on the cheek before throwing the door wide open so he can leave, despite the fact that I’m no longer wearing a shirt. 

“Nice nipples, Basilton,” Wellbelove deadpans as she walks past on her way to her room.

*

Everybody’s quietly hungover as we maneuver around the cottage getting ready the next morning; Shepard is the only one who doesn’t seem to be suffering, although he stays glued to his phone throughout our quick breakfast. 

“A fairy just walked past the window,” Simon says as he’s draining his second cup of tea. Bunce frowns at him. “No, seriously,” he says, pointing. We all turn to look, and sure enough, a few seconds later another girl with cheap fairy wings flapping on her back goes rushing past. 

“You didn’t tell us this was fancy dress!” Bunce says. I shrug. She looks vaguely betrayed, but I see realisation dawning on Simon’s face. 

“We don’t have to spell my wings,” he says, grinning, and I raise an eyebrow at him and smile back. He nudges my foot with his under the table. 

“Simon can’t be the only one in a costume,” Bunce says crossly. “No, I _know_ it’s not a costume, Simon—I just didn’t know dressing up was part of the ritual!”

“It’s not a ritual,” I say. 

“Everything is a ritual!” Bunce says, which I think somewhat undermines her point; if everything is special, then surely nothing is. 

“If you’re that desperate to look foolish, there might be some old Christmas things in your room,” I say, and Bunce immediately goes off to hunt; she returns with a very dusty-looking pair of felt reindeer antlers, and a halo made out of tinsel. 

“No,” Wellbelove says without looking up when Bunce tries to push the halo into her hands; she shrugs, then puts it on herself, handing the antlers to Shepard. 

Everybody changes into their swimming things and slings towels around their necks, although Wellbelove has a huge padded coat on over hers and looks like she’ll eviscerate anybody who tells her to take it off. I lock the door behind me as Simon attempts to pull my arm out of its socket, desperate to get to the sea. 

There are around fifty people here, shivering and laughing and stamping their feet, goose-pimpled children already splashing about and trying to dunk each other under the water. 

“Try to do that to me and I’ll remove a limb,” I warn Simon; he just laughs. Somebody starts a countdown aloud, like it’s New Year’s Eve rather than the arse-crack of dawn, and everybody else joins in. When it gets to eight, suddenly everybody’s throwing off their towels and coats and plunging headlong into the ocean, screaming bloody murder. Simon has to drag me in, and Bunce has to do the same to Wellbelove, who does finally begrudgingly shed her coat; the water is shockingly cold, even for me. 

“Shit!” Simon yells, wading in up to his waist, laughing hysterically as his teeth start to chatter.

“This is _horrible_ ,” Wellbelove shouts, immediately heading back for the shore. 

Simon ducks his head under, then surfaces and shakes his head like a dog; my hair is instantly soaked, but I can’t find it in me to complain, watching him throw his head back and whoop with joy as he spreads his wings wide and meets the next wave as it comes crashing into him. 

I retreat to the shore with Wellbelove and Bunce, who are shivering in their towels. When Simon realises I’m gone he makes his way back to me, but as he steps out of the sea a dark-haired little boy dressed as Batman reaches out to touch his wing; he turns and crouches in the surf so that the child can run a chubby hand over the leathery red skin, his eyes as wide as saucers. 

“Can you fly?” He asks in a tiny voice. His father laughs. Simon laughs too, but when the boy is picked up to be carried away, still staring at Simon over his father’s shoulder, Simon gives him a conspiratorial nod. 

“Stop giving away all our secrets,” I say when he reaches me; he just presses a cold, salty kiss to my lips and then turns to watch Shepard and the rest of the last brave revelers as they make their way back up to the beach. 

*

“I’m not getting back in,” Wellbelove says warily that evening, when Shepard announces that we’re returning to the beach. We’ve all been sleepily curled up around the cottage like cats; our hair has dried strangely from the sea, and Simon’s curls are tight, brittle whorls against his forehead.

“You don’t have to get in the water,” Shepard says encouragingly, handing her a blanket. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” 

We begrudgingly pull on coats and scarves and then crunch across the pebbles in the dark. The stars are so bright and close I feel like I could touch them, and Simon’s got an arm slung easily around my waist. 

We’re _never_ going back to the Manor for Christmas, no matter how much Daphne begs. 

“Alright,” Shepard says, when we’re all sitting in a line on the beach, looking down the slope into the surf. “Now—look.” 

“Look at what?” Wellbelove says, as if he’s gone thoroughly mad. “It’s pitch black.” 

“Just wait,” Shepard says infuriatingly; I turn to say something to Simon, but he shushes me. Outrageous. 

We wait, and nothing happens. I’m just about to tell Omaha that nothing is worth sitting on hard pebbles for more than five minutes when Simon grabs my arm. 

“ _Look_ ,” he breathes. 

There’s something glowing in the distance, below the waves; it’s moving across the water, from left to right, against the flow of the tide. As we watch, there’s a disturbance, as if an enormous shoal of fish is bubbling just below the surface—suddenly something bursts up and out into the air, and I realise what we’re looking at. 

Enormous horses, made entirely of water. They’re snorting and tossing their sea-spray manes about as they canter across the horizon, still glowing eerily in the darkness. We all stand up as one and move towards the shoreline to get a closer look, Simon’s hand still tight around my arm. 

“What _is_ it?” he whispers, as the herd draws level with us. 

“Kelpie migration,” Shepard says happily. “It’s not always today, but I got a tip-off this morning that we might catch it.” Even Wellbelove looks deeply emotional, which is somewhat disturbing, but I suppose she is a dyed-in-the-wool horse girl. 

“It’s beautiful,” Penny says. She’s got an arm around Shepard, with Agatha smiling— _really_ smiling—on her other side. Simon is wearing one of my jumpers, and he smells like salt and chocolate and woodsmoke, and when he turns to smile at me there’s a single tear making slow progress down his cheek. I pull him tightly to my side and he sighs, radiating warmth and calm and unadulterated, uncomplicated happiness. 

I never thought we’d have a Christmas like this. I never imagined a path that would lead me here; back to the beach where I once played with my mother, with a different sort of family that has been splintered apart and then pieced back together, watching magic glowing across the water under a myriad of stars. 

But Bunce is right. 

It’s beautiful. 


End file.
